by Winona Kent
Lundberg stole a glance inside the garage. “Jesus,” he said. “Guess we found him, eh?”
“Give me your knife, Randy.”
Lundberg tossed him his pocket knife. Evan reached up and cut the rope looped over the rafter, catching Robin in his arms as he collapsed backward. Kneeling on the floor, he sliced through the cord binding his son’s hands and rubbed them with his own to get the circulation going.
“How is he?” said Lundberg.
“How does he look?” Evan answered.
“I was only asking.”
“Don’t ask. Help me carry him.”
Lundberg pocketed his Beretta and wrapped his left arm gingerly around Robin’s back, grabbing hold of one of the belt loops in his jeans. “Who is he, anyway?”
Evan ignored him. “Ready?”
Robin’s head flopped forward as they lifted him; he groaned as his arms were pulled sideways over their shoulders.
“OK,” Evan said, “OK.” He looked at Lundberg. “This is one of mine.”
Lundberg was surprised.
“I didn’t know you had a kid.”
“I’ve got three. How many do you have?”
Lundberg made a face. “Not interested,” he said. “No thank you.”
They ploughed through the wet weeds and grass, clambered over the fence, and struggled across the road to the school parking lot, lowering Robin into the front passenger seat of the Chevette. There was a blanket in the back of the Prelude. Evan appropriated it, tucking it gently around Robin’s shivering body. He shut the door.
“Boy,” Lundberg said, peering in at Robin. “They really did a number on him. You got any idea what they were after?”
“Me,” Evan answered, starting the Chevette’s engine. “Thanks for your help. See you later.”
“Yeah. Later.”
Evan drove to the end of the block and stopped under a streetlight, engine idling, to consult the atlas. Burnaby General? No. That would be the first place Berringer would go looking. He turned the Chevette around in the middle of the road and headed in the opposite direction, toward New Westminster.
“Still with me, Robin?”
“Uh-huh.” His son’s voice was faint and strained. Evan glanced over at him; Robin managed the merest flicker of a smile in return.
“What took you so long?” he whispered.
Chapter Six
Later Tuesday Morning, But Still Very Early In The Day
Anthony couldn’t sleep. This sort of thing happened frequently: too many ideas crawling into his mind, tumbling over one another for prominence. He usually handled such bouts of insomnia by going for a walk along the mountain road above the house, or by running an exceptionally hot bath and plunging in with a good book for an hour or two. This time, it was different.
He wandered out into the living room, switching on a minimum of lights, and sat cross-legged in front of the cabinet that held his collection of Spy Squad tapes. There was something about all of this satellite dish business that was vaguely familiar. He remembered an episode from the program’s second season; there were satellites in that one, too, along with a plot to take over the world. Of course, what Spy Squad show hadn’t concerned itself with the safety of the known universe, in one way or another? He flipped through the white cartons that held his videotapes, then plugged in a cassette and settled in front of the TV set, Mrs. Peel snoring in his lap. There was Evan, an oddity from the sixties with his naturally red hair dyed an unnatural dark brown and the kind of sideburns that went well with Nehru jackets and love beads. Which was precisely what Jarrod was wearing in the season opener—a two-part episode involving vicious hippies, exploding peace symbols, and a truth serum that made your mind go all psychedelic. Like the cover of IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA.
Mrs. Peel’s ears twitched as the telephone in the hallway began to ring. Draping the cat over his hand, legs dangling, Anthony went to answer it.
“Hullo?” He aimed the remote control at Jarrod, who froze in midflight after leaping from a stack of packing crates piled beside a freighter tied up at an L.A. pier.
Evan leaned into the wall of the waiting room in Emergency, resting his head on his forearm. “Anthony?”
“Uh-huh. Who’s this?”
“Your father.”
“Oh…hello. I was just thinking about you. Running your old Spy Squad’ tapes.”
“Must you?”
“Well, yes. I was sort of hoping they’d put me to sleep.”
“Thank you very much.” Evan stifled a yawn. “Is your mother up?”
“God, no. She went to bed hours ago. Why?”
“She rang me earlier at the hotel—she was worried about Robin. If you check his bedroom you’ll note that he hasn’t been home.”
Anthony sat down on the floor, plumping Mrs. Peel onto his knees.
“And you’re calling to let her know that you’ve tracked Robin down to Wreck Beach, where he’s spent the last three hours stark naked inside a tent, reciting Leonard Cohen to a starry-eyed exchange student from Hong Kong.”
Evan laughed. “No—not quite.” He’d played Ping-Pong with his conscience about calling. And realized now that, under the circumstances, Anthony would be a much better listener than Gwennie. “Would you think it odd of me if I asked you to meet me somewhere, Anthony?”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now. I’m in a rather awkward place at the moment, and I would like to explain your brother’s predicament to somebody—preferably not your mother. Is there somewhere we can get together?”
“Sure.” Anthony sounded confused. “There’s a restaurant downtown on Burrard—opposite the Meridien. It’s open all night. Would that be all right?”
“Sounds fine,” Evan answered tiredly.
“See you outside—in twenty minutes?”
“Give me an hour. I’m not that close.”
Anthony put the telephone down and scratched his cat under the chin. What had happened to Robin? Did it have something to do with those translations? The last he’d seen of his brother was at UBC, when he’d set off with that envelope full of photocopies.
“Mrs. Peel,” he said, staring keenly into the disinterested yellow eyes. “We’re needed.”
Evan stood under the harsh light thrown by the restaurant marquee, sharing the sidewalk with the late-night crowd: dubious women in shiny stretch pants, their male counterparts in skin-hugging leather and open shirts, in spite of the wet February chill. There were sleep-by-day city workers and the usual complement of after-club party-goers, in various stages of wakefulness and inebriation. Once or twice a lone man in a business suit had come outside and looked up and down the street, eyes darting nervously, as though he was still waiting for an appointment that had long ago decided not to come.
A little red Austin-Mini puttered up the street and stopped around the corner. A lithe young man stepped out, wearing tight black trousers, a calf-length overcoat, boots, and an extra-long, multistriped Doctor Who scarf. He had a pigtail. He sauntered up to Evan with a grin on his face.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Anthony?”
“You don’t recognize me. I’m devastated.”
Evan felt old. “I’m sorry. It’s just that last time I saw you, you looked entirely different.”
“So did you,” Anthony replied, standing before his father with his hands in his coat pockets. “You were thirty-five years old and had sideburns down to your chin.”
Evan smiled. “Do you particularly want to go in here?” he said, nodding at the restaurant.
“Not if you don’t.”
“Let’s walk,” he said.
Two young girls in satin shorts and knee boots bolted out through the doors, giggling loudly as two boys in white T-shirts cantered after them, throwing dinner rolls. Anthony ducked; the girls shrieked off down Burrard, the boys in noisy pursuit.
“Let me guess,” Anthony said. “You’re a spy on a top secret mission for the Canadian government—and this has something to do with a toy rob
ot.”
Evan stopped walking momentarily, then quickened his pace to catch up with his son.
“Giselle told me,” Anthony continued, enjoying the effect of his revelation. “It’s all right, really. I’m not likely to go spreading it around. Pssst, hey—did you know that Evan Harris really is Jarrod Spencer?”
Evan gave him a sideways look. “Hardly,” he said. “It’s a bit difficult to go saving the world on an episodic basis, believe me.” He warmed his hands in his pockets. “Always nice to know Giselle Cournoyer can be counted on to blow my cover. How much did she tell you?”
“Enough,” Anthony answered easily. “That she’s an agent with your department as well, that the robot was intended for you, not Robin. Are you angry with her?”
“I don’t think that’s quite the issue at this point…How the hell did you two manage to meet, anyway?”
“She needed an actor for one of her cinematic statements on the futility of the nuclear arms race. I answered the ad.”
“And one thing led to another.”
“Several things led to another,” Anthony said, affably. “The casting couch, in this case, was a waveless water bed that sprang a leak at a very inopportune moment.”
Evan smiled.
“Anyway, consider Giselle’s indiscretion my fault, OK? I put her in a position where she had to say something. I asked her to get her grandfather to translate the documents we found in the robot’s head. She told me everything when she gave the prints back to me.”
“Ah, yes,” Evan said. “The prints.”
Anthony stopped walking. How did he know?
“Who has them now?” his father asked.
“I do,” Anthony said, curiously. “The originals, anyway. Robin’s got the photocopies. At least, he did, the last time I saw him.”
“Which was…?”
“This afternoon—at UBC.”
Evan stared at the sidewalk. That explained why Berringer had been reluctant to let Robin go, and why he’d resorted to violence. Without those prints, his son could have claimed total innocence. With them, he was as good as implicated.
“Did Robin tell you where he was going with those documents?” he asked, when Anthony had caught up to him.
Anthony shrugged. “He said he was taking them to the RCMP. I let him go because I didn’t think it would matter much. I didn’t think they’d believe him—and I was going to give you the originals next time I saw you, anyway.”
They continued on to the traffic lights at Robson, where Evan contemplated the great blue-green spotlit roof of the Hotel Vancouver. “I asked him to bring me the copies. I did want the originals, too—he probably thought he could get them from you later. We’d talked about meeting for dinner. He was going to call me if he could manage it.”
Anthony looked at his father. “Robin knows you’re a spy?”
Evan nodded.
“And he never told me! Here we were, sitting in the Gallery Lounge—he knew and I knew—and neither of us said a word!” He shook his head, disbelieving, as the light changed from red to green. They walked across Robson toward the public library.
There was a bag lady sitting on a bench outside the library, her belongings jumbled into a rusty shopping cart. She stared at Evan and Anthony with piercing black eyes as they went past her.
“Giselle didn’t mention anything to you about a character named Wade Berringer, did she?”
Anthony shook his head. “Only the Russians.”
“Then she’s only told you part of the story. This Berringer fellow seems to have a vested interest in the microfilm. We don’t know who he’s working for. Certainly not the KGB.”
“Somebody’s been following Robin around for the last couple of days. Is that him?”
Evan nodded. “I recognized him at the airport.”
“Well,” Anthony said, “he’s got the microfilm now, doesn’t he?”
“Does he?”
Anthony looked at his father. “Robin told me the robot was ripped off out of his car.”
“It was. By me.”
There was a moment of silence. “Then he made that story up about those guys in the blue Buick?”
“It appears that way, doesn’t it?”
“He knew you had it, all along?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because I asked him not to. Why didn’t you tell him you knew?”
Anthony conceded the point. They had reached the massive gray stone corner of the Hotel Vancouver. “What’s happened to him?” he asked at last, gazing at the dazzling reflection of the Hyatt on the wet pavement half a block away.
“He’s in a hospital. In New Westminster.”
“What?” Anthony’s expression turned instantly to one of concern. He faced his father squarely. “Why? What happened?”
“Berringer got hold of him this afternoon as he was leaving the university.”
“God,” said Anthony. “It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. If it’s anybody’s, it’s mine—for involving him. I had to retrieve the robot—I had no choice in the matter. And I didn’t know how long it would be before Berringer caught on—or you two went to the police. I thought he might be able to bluff his way through it if they did decide to make a move.”
“Is Robin OK?” Anthony asked quietly.
Evan considered the question. He had seen far worse. That didn’t make it any easier to accept: it was different when the individual trying his best not to cry as he was poked with needles and swabbed with antiseptic was your own flesh and blood. “They beat him,” he said.
Anthony winced. He unwound his scarf; it hung almost to the ground, with a full two inches of multicolored wool tassel at either end. “How could they do that to him?” he said, his voice breaking. “Robin didn’t know anything.”
“Robin knew quite a lot,” Evan replied. “I was going to suggest that you be very careful over the next few days. I don’t know what Berringer was able to get out of your brother—he may have mentioned you, or Giselle.”
“OK.” He folded his arms across his scarf. “Let’s walk down to the water.”
They crossed Georgia and cut down to Canada Place, where the Pan Pacific Hotel jutted out on its pier, white teflon sails billowing. They climbed the stairs to the outdoor plaza beyond the hotel’s lobby, midship. To the left of the plaza stretched the dark waters of Burrard Inlet; to the right was the jeweled blackness of North Vancouver.
“I suppose,” Anthony said, “that because Robin was caught with those prints, we’ve set the state of national security back about a hundred years.”
“Not really. You only uncovered half of the film. By itself, that half is useful—but not much of a threat to world peace.”
Anthony leaned on the railing, staring out over the black, calm water. A tugboat at the railroad pier nosed a fully loaded barge out into the harbor, engines growling. “Where’s the other half?” he asked, perplexed. “Robin looked everywhere. He had that robot stripped down to its essential elements.”
“One of the wheels on the bottom was hollow.”
“Outwitted again,” Anthony observed glumly. “I don’t make a very good secret agent, do I?”
Evan was silent. Below and far behind them, a shunting engine throbbed toward the old CPR station and Seabus Terminal, dragging empty freight cars onto a siding. The smell was tantalizing: a mixture of diesel and sea, and the fresh, icy wash of the breeze coming in off the inlet.
“Where is it you live?” Evan asked, suddenly curious.
“Over there,” Anthony replied, gesturing up toward the bands of light marking the main thoroughfares of West Vancouver. “Properties.”
Evan hung his arms over the railing. “Whatever possessed Rolf to build up there?”
“Ego,” Anthony said. “Onward, upward, bigger, better. He was extremely annoyed when they began clearing the lots above us. I thought he was worried about landslides. Turned out he was more concern
ed with the value of his property.”
“Typical.” Evan contemplated the water. “Nice view?”
“Incredible view,” Anthony replied. He turned around, resting his elbows on the railing, gazing up at the night-lit buildings of downtown Vancouver. “What should we tell Mom?”
Evan glanced at his middle son. “I don’t know, Anthony,” he said. “What do you think we should say?”
Chapter Seven
Tuesday Morning, At A Much More Decent Hour—And Later, Tuesday Night
Gwennie Raymond sat at the breakfast counter in her dressing gown and slippers, hands wrapped around a large mug of strong tea. The number one song on CGUL’s Hot Top Ten came on the radio, and she reached across, switched the frequency over to FM, and twisted the dial until she found the station that was playing what Robin always referred to as “music for the middle of your mind.” She didn’t particularly care what they thought: The boys had their tastes, she had hers. She had lately grown a little tired of the constant repetition of hit songs that characterized AM stations like CGUL.
Quite frankly, she had lately grown a little tired of Rolf and his obsession with broadcasting, too.
The soft instrumental music soothed her momentary pang of guilt. She checked the clock on the stove. It was a bit silly of her to have been calling Evan at all hours, she realized, but really, there were too many tragedies in the newspaper—innocent drivers smashed into by drunks, shootings at all-night convenience stores.
She looked at the clock again. Robin had a class at half past nine: he’d be late if he didn’t get a move on—if he’d bothered to come home at all. She ran lightly up the three steps that led to her sons’ bedrooms. Anthony was just waking. She could hear him, talking to that blasted cat, who refused to sleep anywhere but at the bottom of his bed, under the sheets, like a bundled-up lump of socks.
She stopped in front of Robin’s room and knocked. There was no answer. Gwennie tried again, then peeked inside. His bed was neatly made, not slept in. Annoyed, she marched back to Anthony’s room and hammered on the door with her fist.
Anthony was warming his feet on Mrs. Peel’s stomach. He looked at his alarm clock. Ten after eight. He’d managed two hours’ sleep.